


Of pale faces, of red rivers

by Gabrielique (Sacchan90)



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood, Canon Era, I am sorry but I have to do this, I blame Eda for everything, M/M, So be warned, This is also very OOC, if in hannibal everything is people here everything is blood, like seriously the whole fic is about blood, no really description of violence but i wanted to be sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sacchan90/pseuds/Gabrielique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Don't." Montparnasse orders before Jehan can scream -he knows the other will, his eyes are already big in horror- and puts a hand over Jehan's mouth. "Breathe. In and out. Slowly. Calm."<br/>Jehan tries to breath, but there is blood on Montparnasse's hand, blood that he can feel over his lips, and before he can realize it, his tongue tastes that blood in a sparkle of blind curiosity. It's warm and somehow metal. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of pale faces, of red rivers

**Author's Note:**

> \- This morning I found [this](http://drunkpylades.tumblr.com/post/50977661201/pontmercyfriend-i-just-want-jehan-to-be-like) post on tumblr and, if you read my tags, well it explains everything.  
> -Basically Jehan writes with blood.  
> -That's it, that's the plot.  
> -I am sorry for the way this thing is clearly OOC, especially for Jehan.  
> -Do not judge me, please.
> 
> \- No beta  
> -English still not my first language, damn.

There is a body in the dark alley, a dead body bathing in its own blood, the colors fading from the face, as the blood flows out of the open cut on the throat.

  
A man, in his late thirty, poorly dressed, with a ruffled beard and dirty hair.

  
A man, dead.

  
Another man, just at the blossom of his twenty, perfectly dresses, standing over the body.

  
That's what Jehan sees, and he's sure he's going to faint, because it's better than run away and call the police only to try to explain to them that he was following his partner and he found him and a corpse.

  
"Don't." Montparnasse orders before Jehan can scream -he knows the other will, his eyes are already big in horror- and puts a hand over Jehan's mouth. "Breathe. In and out. Slowly. Calm."

  
Jehan tries to breath, but there is blood on Montparnasse's hand, blood that he can feel over his lips, and before he can realize it, his tongue tastes that blood in a sparkle of blind curiosity. It's warm and somehow metal.

  
Something in Montparnasse's eyes changes, a triumphant light makes them shine like stars in the shadow of the dark alley: no dobubt he felt Jehan's tongue over his bloodied fingers. "Good boy." he whispers, and Jehan doesn't know if he's talking about his breathing, or about his curiosity.

  
"So, this is what you do?" Jehan asks as soon as his mouth is free, his voice is shaking, and his heart his beating loudly in his ears.

  
" _Oui_ , when necessary." Montparnasse replies without feeling guilty, and a part of him makes him notice that he should. Jehan -his beautiful Jehan with flowers in his hair and flowers on his waistcoat- found him bathing in blood, and he doesn't care.

  
A millions of thoughts races in Jehan's mind, and yet he says. "I understand why you didn't want me to know."

  
Montparnasse smiles like an animal playing with the prey. He raises his hand to his lips and licks the blood from his fingers, still smiling, but looking at the corpse. He's proud, of his work and the fact that the man he loves -in his own twisted way- is finally seeing what he's able to do.

  
But Jehan is not watching the corpse, it's watching Montparnasse's lips, red with blood, and he asks himself if they has the colors of cherries because at this point, there is no way to wash away the blood from them.

  
And Jehan is taking Montparnasse's face in his hands and he's kissing him hard, and he doesn't know what's more dangerous: kissing a man in the street of Paris where anyone could see them, or standing next to a corpse, stained with blood to show their guilt?

  
Thankfully, Montparnasse's arms are ready to catch him, when Jehan's legs give up under his weight. "Easy, little flower." he whispers.

  
"Why?" Jehan finally asks, his finger clawing the other boy's arm. "Why you killed him?"

  
The same smile is still on Montparnasse's face as he let Jehan rests against the wall; when he's sure the other will not collapse, he moves to the corpse and check his pockets gently, taking out a watch and some money, then a little book. "I am sure he thought it was your wallet."

  
Jehan fingers closes around the book with his poems with a sigh. "You killed a man because he took my book?"

  
"What can I say." Montparnasse rests with his back on the wall next to Jehan. "I can be a gentleman, when I want."

  
The right bottom corner of the book is stained with blood that is already drying, and Jehan cannot stop looking at it, and it's a good thing, because otherwise he would kiss Montparnasse once again, and there is no time for that, they have to get the hell away from the corpse.

 

* * *

 

That night Jehan can't sleep; he lays on the bed of his room, safe and restless in Montparnasse's arms, litstening to their hearts beating in the night. Beating _alive_.

  
How can their hearts beat so alive, when a man lays dead in a dark alley because one of them killed him?

  
In his sleep, Montparnasse looks peaceful, unable to do any harm, and young- _oh so young_ \- and innocent, and Jehan can't stop looking, can't stop remembering how his blood felt warmer in his body when they kissed with blood on their tongues.

  
He's scared that a dead man will hunt him, if he falls asleep, so he stays awake, but he's also scared of the reason why he's not more scared about the man alive next to him.

 

* * *

 

The blood doesn't fade from the book, not completely, and every time Jehan wants to write something, his eyes capture the fading stains.

  
The blood is there, on every page in the corner, sometimes touching the words he wrote with his pretty handwriting, remembering how he may have not killed the man, but he can still be called accomplice.

  
He spends hours contemplating the blood and the words, the points where they touch, and sometimes the dried blood is not that different from the stains of ink on the page.

  
The day he finally asks himself if he could write in blood, is the day he finally let himself screams.

  
Montparnasse is quickly by his side, a reassuring dark shadow over his right shoulder. "What's wrong?"

  
Jehan is shaking completely, every muscles in his body out of his control, and he's glad he's sitting on a chair because his legs feel made of butter.

  
"There is still blood on my book." Jehan says and that's not the point, but how he's supposed to say the truth?

  
"I am sorry." Montparnasse says taking the book out of Jehan's visual field. Probably they should have talk about this earlier. "I can copy all your poems for you, then I can get rid of the book."

  
Jehan shakes his head, a flower falling from his braid. "Let it be." he manages to say. "I'll get used to it."

  
"You don't have to do, if you don't want to." Montparnasse points out with a gentleness that sounds _and is_ totally fake.

  
"It's just blood." Jehan replies forcing a smile, but he can feel his lips trembling, even when the other leans down to kiss him. "I just have to stop thinking that it's the blood..."

  
"Of someone I've killed." the younger finishes simply, no regret, no guilty.

  
"Yes." Jehan nods, because it's easier to lie than question himself. It's easier to place the blame all over Montparnasse than admitting that something is wrong with him.

Everyday he opens the book and stares at the blood, and every day the blood looks more like ink.

 

* * *

 

Outside the sun is shining with arrogance, the summer made the days longer and hotter, and the afternoons lazier, so there is nothing better than laying in bed, naked over the sheet.

  
Business and revolution can wait for a day or two.

  
Montparnasse places a flower over Jehan's left ear, and runs his finger between the free long blondish hair: he will never say out loud, but he likes Jehan better when he doesn't braid his hair, he likes the way the tips caresses the skin on his chest, or the shoulder blade on his back.

  
Jehan runs a finger over Montparnasse's naked chest, writing words over his skin that nobody will ever read.

  
"It looks like ink." he says, and when Montparnasse looks confused at him, he adds. "The blood. It looks like ink."

  
Montparnasse's takes Jehan's chin in his fingers and forces him to look in hi eyes. He sees demons there, dancing behind grey eyes.  
"You mean, you could write with it?" he asks seriously.

  
"I want to write with it." Jehan admits and his voice breaks over the last word like he's going to cry.

  
Montparnasse doesn't say anything, he just kisses him again. And again. Until Jehan's sobs becomes moans.

 

* * *

 

"Words are life for me, and blood is life." Jehan says one day watching the clouds in the sky, white and pure, so distant from the field where they are sitting.

  
Montparnasse opens up one eye lazily, almost regretting not being already asleep on the grass field. "So?"

  
"It's not so strange that I want to write with blood." Jehan ends because he needs to find an excuse.

  
"Not at all." Montparnasse agrees not really interested.

[ X ]

It's exactly one week and two days after the killing, two days after the day in the field, that Montparnasse shows up at Jehan's place at some point in the afternoon.

  
He doesn't greets, he simply offers to Jehan a small bottle, filled with something dark, but not dark enough.

  
Jehan takes the bottle with shaky fingers, his mind spinning, and knowing what's in the bottle. Something dark, but too reddish to be ink. He stops breathing for a few seconds, and when he looks at Montparnasse, he's still there.

  
He's still there perfectly dressed, and with no trace of blood on his clothes or under his fingers. He's still there like he didn't kill someone to bring him a bottle of blood.

  
"I can be a gentleman, when I want." Montparnasse says, but he doesn't smile, he waits for Jehan's reaction.

  
The poet squeezes the bottle, holding it as it's the only concrete element in the whole universe, and step away from the door, followed by the younger.

  
"At last, their death would be useful."

 

That day, Jehan writes about the soul made tangible in the form of blood, he writes about words made tangible thanks to the ink. He writes about ink and blood, and how they are both parts of the poet's being.  
And Montparnasse stays next to him, a fierce smile on his lips, his fingers in Jehan's hair.

Later, when four pages are full of lines of blood, Jehan let Montparnasse have him until they are too tired and too drained of any energy, until it's dark outside, until he literally begs him to stop, until he cannot remember the little traces of blood on his fingers.

 

* * *

 

Jehan never ends a bottle of blood, his mind always snap at some point, remembering him that he's writing with the same fluid that keep people alive, and he throw away the glassy object, which generally breaks on the floor staining it in red.

  
In days like this, he shouts to Montparnasse, until the younger is too tired to listen, and pins him to the wall.

  
"Let it go, Jehan." Montparnasse says with a cold voice, cold as his movements when he kills someone. "Let it go, or it will kill you."

  
But Jehan cannot let it go, not completely, not even when Montparnasse kisses him with anger and with too much teeth.

 

* * *

 

Other times, Jehan looks at the yellowish pages and at the blood and _smiles_ to himself.

  
There is poetry in the contrast of colors, _poetry in the chromatism_ , a whole new world in the way the blood fades at the edges of the words.

  
In days like this, Jehan crawls to bed and kisses Montparnasse with the same fierceness on his lips that usually belongs to the younger.

 

* * *

 

Around the start of winter, it's an addiction, Jehan realizes.

  
His friends know, he realizes too. Courfeyrac is the first to notice something different in him, followed by Grantaire in days when he's not too drunk. Combeferre gives him looks behind his eye glasses, as Bahorel and Feuilly speaks to each other's ear looking at him. Musichetta looks at him under her eyelashes, and Joly is so worried about his health that Bossuet has to shut him up with gentle kisses.

  
He never brings his bloodied books to the Musain, he's not a fool, he clears his hands with attention, and he keeps his secret to himself.

At night, when he's safe in Montparnasse's arms, he relaxes once again.

 

* * *

 

He writes about the people Montparnasse's kills, after all, they are the source of his ink, it's the least he can do.

  
He writes of pale faces, of red rivers, of dawn that brings no warmth.

  
And when he's done, Montparnasse licks away the small traces of blood from his fingers, and Jehan feels like he could write sonnets about how that simple gesture can make him melt, like the last snow under the first sun.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, there is no blood for weeks, because Montparnasse has been sincere, he kills only when necessary, otherwise it will be too dangerous, and they both know.

  
The ink is fine of course, Jehan can't write his poems only in blood, especially because blood fades more quickly, and he can't afford to lose his words, his thoughts; and yet, he's disappointed when there is black on the pages

.   
"'Parnasse?" he calls looking at the other boy who is checking out a ring that -no doubt- he stole.

  
"Yes, Jehan?"

  
"When do you think you will able to bring me more..." Jehan swallows down the right word in order to settle down for a more common one. "more ink?"

  
Montparnasse doesn't smile, but his eyes are the eyes of a panther ready to feast, and he shrugs. "I don't know."

  
"I understand." Jehan lies. He feels tears in the corner of his eyes: since when he can asks so freely about blood? It's crazy. _He's crazy._

After that, there is no blood for another week, and Jehan is restless, he misses the colors, he misses the taste when Montparnasse playfully feed drops of blood to him from the tip of his finger, he misses the moans coming from Montparnasse when his tongue swirls around the finger before suck it clean. (and they never talk about the perversion, never.)  
And Montparnasse _knows_.

  
"You miss the blood." he says casually.

  
Jehan turn around over the bed (they never talk about how much time they spend there, dressed or naked, never) and frowns.

  
"As much I miss killing when there is no opportunity." Montparnasse adds, feeling that if they admits that they are twisted together, Jehan would feel less guilty.

  
"Maybe." Jehan breathes out. "But I am not a child who will complain and cry."

  
"Of course you are not." the younger laughs and moves to sit with his back on the wall and rolls over his shirt up to his elbow.

  
"Parnasse?" Jehan asks confused, raising up to his elbows, sensing something very odd.

  
After a few moments of searching in his pockets, Montparnasse takes out a small knife.

  
"Montparnasse?" Jehan asks again and if his worried voice wasn't enough, using the complete name of the other is a clear sign of how much he's worried.

  
"If I were in you I'd take one of your empty bottle now."

  
"No!" Jehan shouts as soon as his mind elaborates what's happening. His hands close around Montparnasse's wrist to stop him from lowering the blade to his bare arm. "Don't."

  
Montparnasse smirks. "Ah, my little flower." he says sweetly. "I'll be fine."

  
"You don't have to. I don't want you to..." Jehan is begging, which is better than throwing up everything that he has in his stomach, even if he's close to it.

  
"But I want to." Montparnasse raises the free hand and rests in on Jehan's cheek, his thumbs caressing the skin gently. "I took your sanity, pay for it with a little bit of blood doesn't sound wrong."

  
Jehan takes the hand on his face and kisses it gently. "You don't have to." he repeats.

  
"But think of it, writing about love, with your lover's blood." Montparnasse whispers leaning foward and placing a soft kiss on the poet's lips, and when he feels Jehan holding his breath for a moment, he knows he has won.

  
"This is crazy, we are crazy." Jehan says, but he get out of the bed anyway.

  
He takes the smallest of the bottle, he will not need anything larger because nobody is going to bleed to death, and stops a moment, to recollect himself. When he became this? When his Muse changed her sweet face to the one of a monster?

  
In the end he decides that it doesn't matter anymore.

  
"Do you want to have the honor?" Montparnasse offers the handle of the knife to the poet.

  
"I fear I will cut you too deep." Jehan admits and, _dear lord, how can he be okay with this?_

  
"Fine." Montparnasse replies holding the knife firmly in his right hand. "Keep your eyes on me." he whispers the order like he's used to do when the other is on his knees, and Jehan tries his best to hide the shiver running down his spine.

  
Jehan keeps his eyes on Montparnasse, he sees the knife cutting the skin, not too deep, not too lightly, he sees the blood coming out, he sees Montparnasse inhaling sharply when the blade cuts, and he sees his grimace when his nerves bring the pain to his brain.

  
Jehan keeps his eyes on the blood slowly falling into the bottle, and he's thankful that there isn't much blood, everything is really very much metaphoric, but there is blood in the bottle, and it's Montparnasse's blood, and Jehan knows he could cry. He could cry because this sacrifice, for how small, it's the greatest he ever witnessed.

  
He kisses the cut before the blood stops, every inch, gently, staining his lips and letting his tongue tasting the blood.

  
Montparnasse chuckles and closes his eyes. " _Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me_." he quotes, his whole body shivering at every new touch. If hell has a blessing, it's this: a burning cut and gentle lips.

  
"I am sorry, my love." Jehan whispers pressing his handkerchief against the cut, not caring about the thin line of blood forming on it.

  
"Don't be." Montparnasse whispers. "Write, instead. And forgive me, if you can."

 

 

Jehan writes, not much, his red ink limited, but he writes with his heart, his lips still red with blood that is not it's own, and he writes of him and Montparnasse, of lovers that hides in the dark, of lovers that are so twisted and entwined together that it's hard to say who is who.

  
He writes with fingers that tremble with desire, with passion, with longing for a complete union.

  
He writes until his body is not aching for relief, and at that point, he's back in the bed, and Montparnasse is more than happy to welcome him back in there.

  
He's a raggedy doll, and Montparnasse is a master of puppets who knows which string pull.

 

* * *

 

The cut leaves a scar, not a wrinkled ugly scar, but an elegant one that Jehan kisses everyday with reverence, his head bowed over Montparnasse's arm, his eyes closed, his lips slightly open.

 

* * *

 

Roses have thorns, and Jehan never really thought about it until there is a big red drop of blood on his index and he brings it to his mouth, hoping to stop the blood.

  
Few hours later, there is a little piece of glass in his hand, a little cut on the side of his wrist, blood on a spoon, and red words on a paper.

  
"Jehan, _no_." Montparnasse says shaking his head and kneeling in front of Jehan and taking the wrist in his hands. It's a small cut, nothing serious, nothing deadly. "Don't harm yourself."

  
"Why not?" Jehan asks simply. "My own words written in my own blood: that's the purest form of art. My heart and my blood in my words, all myself in the pages."

  
"My love." Montparnasse kisses the poet on the lips with tenderness. "No artist should give himself whole to his public, otherwise that's not art, but martyrdom."

  
Jehan laughs a little, but he stops when Montparnasse brings his wrist to his lips. he closes his eyes when he feels the tongue on his skin.

  
"Promise me you will not be so foolish again."

  
"I will not." Jehan says seriously.

 

* * *

 

Jehan doesn't cut himself again, and Montparnasse doesn't cut himself for him either anymore.

  
But there is always blood in a small bottle on Jehan's desk, even if Jehan never asks who died, or why. If he asks, he feels he will be damned forever.

  
Or maybe he already is.

  
His soul feels heavy and he wonders if Montparnasse's soul feels lighter, if writing with the blood of the victims of his partner is equal to sharing the blame.

  
Will they share the punishment in hell too?

  
Oh, he wish they will, he wish to be like Paolo and Francesca, never parted, kept together by their love and their guilt.

  
Holding to each other's hands covered in blood.

**Author's Note:**

> \- I blame Eda for everything.  
> -No, actually it's my fault, so yeah.  
> -Again, sorry.  
> -The one linked at the beginning is my blog, if you ever want to visit it.


End file.
